Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

Shoving off the cot, he pushed to his feet. The tape holding the bandage on his thigh jerked at his body hair. He winced and sucked air through his teeth. The bitch had better have suffered before the flames engulfed her. His hands traveled down borrowed clothes. Off the rack crap. God, he hoped no one in his neighborhood saw him when the lazy cops dropped him off at his Scottsdale home. The soft denim jeans and flannel shirt gave off a pathetic whiff of soap before being subsumed by the rampant body odor.

A soft mewl had him pivoting about.

Tattoo leaned over someone. His muscular bulk shifted and twisted. Thin arms reached after his closed hand. “You don’t need it anymore.” The big man’s voice was low and gritty.

Interesting. Trent stepped into his shoes. His heels burned where the stiff leather rubbed against his blisters. But really, where was the challenge in stealing off these losers? It wasn’t as if they had anything he’d want. As it was, he’d have to scrub for hours to get the stench off him.

Civilization never seemed so far away.

He set his boot on the cot and bent over to tie his broken laces.

“There’s cold oatmeal in the cafeteria,” Tattoo shouted across the sleeping bodies. “Be careful of the puddles. They’re slippery.”

“Thanks.” Trent dismissed the warning as hobo hazing. Cold oatmeal. How did people live like this? Wouldn’t they just kill themselves? Save everyone the misery of having to look at them and smell them? Trent removed his boot from the covers, before hoisting the next one up and setting it on the dirty covers.

Tattoo moved onto another sleeper. This one didn’t complain like the other had.

He’d probably been shaken down by the muscular Fagan before. Standing on the bare cement floor, Trent stretched. Lazy bastards. Small wonder the losers were on the street. The morning was half gone and yet most of them were still in bed. “I would have thought the pastor would have roused these guys with the sun.”

Tattoo held up a lighter to the soft glow of the emergency light before shaking it. He tucked it into his pocket. “It’d take JC’s return to roust most of these guys.”

JC? Was that the pastor’s name? Nah, that had been Goodman. Trent straightened and glanced around. It could be another ex-con. He could probably stand his own against one, but not two. Just another good reason to leave as soon as possible.

Turning around, he picked his way down the row of cots, heading toward the makeshift altar. Coughs and wheezing accompanied him. Couldn’t they breathe quieter?

A large vehicle rumbled by, the tremors shook the plain, wooden cross hanging from the drop ceiling. He slipped and his leg shot out in front of him. One knee cracked against the concrete, while his hands slammed down on the nearest cot. Pain flashed through his groin. He hissed then coughed out the foul taste.

“I warned you about the puddles.” Tattoo’s laughter boomed off the metal walls of the warehouse turned mission.

Asshole! Trent would have flipped him the bird but he’d found the pole running along the edge of the cot and used it hold up his weight while he found his footing. The sharp stench of ammonia wafted from the ground followed quickly by the scent of shit. He eyed the streaked pool of liquid and noted the stream feeding it. “What the hell?”

Tattoo wheezed before wiping his eyes. “Don’t you know nothing man?”

“I know plenty.” His IQ was well in the one-fifties, not that anyone appreciated his brilliance. Straightening, Trent stepped over the puddle. He eyed the ground as he walked by the three cots to reach the front of the church.

“Then you know that people shit and piss themselves after they croak.”

“Croak?” Trent did a fair imitation of a frog as he returned the word. He glanced at the losers sleeping in the rows of cots-ten by ten, laying end to end. All but five occupied. Only a few lumps moved in the dim lighting. He backed up until the table/altar cut across his ass. “As in dead?”

“Give the man a prize.” Tattoo clapped his hands.

Trent slammed his hands to his face. Mask. Where was his fucking mask?

“Relax.” Tattoo set his hands on his hips. “It’s the Ash Pneumonia.”

Lowering his hands, Trent made out the black crescents under his manicured nails. His heart battered his sternum. Good God, he’d just touched his face! “Ash Pneumonia?”

“Like the soldiers.” Tattoo batted away the protesting hands of his next victim. “You know, from those fires in China. These guys spent most of the day outside and even the nights. They inhaled.”

Despite a chill snaking down his spine, sweat stung Trent’s eyes. He’d spent the night before last outside, breathing the air. “How much exposure does it take?”

“Shh, now. You don’t need this anymore.” Tattoo soothed, while patting down the sick person’s chest. The muscular guy held what looked like a tiny stuffed alligator up to the light, before tucking it in his pocket. “Oh, you’re not liable to get it being outside only a few days. At least I don’t think so.”

Fucking bastard! Trent shoved away from the table and stormed into the cafeteria. His footsteps echoed around the empty space and resonated along the tables. Grabbing a towel from the stack, he stomped to the serving area. Flies buzzed over the skin forming atop the lumpy blobs of oatmeal. Ignoring it, he hitched a leg over the sink and turned on the tap. Fuck. No water.

He needed to get out of there. Get cleaned up. With his Jag and murder kit now reduced to ash, he could go home. He just needed a ride.

And cops were damn well going to provide it.

He slammed the bowl onto the silver rails. The cheap ceramic cracked and shattered, raining shards onto his boots.

“Give me the fucking money!” Tattoo’s shout drifted into the cafeteria and swirled around Trent.

Well, fuck! Trent’s boots crunched on the broken ceramic. He skirted the serving area and headed into the kitchen proper. Weapon. He needed a weapon. His fingers caressed the large pots on the counter before he dismissed them. They would be too bulky to wield effectively. Eying the drawer stack, he strode closer. Metal jingled when he tugged open the top drawer.

Knives of every shape and size lay in the compartmentalized drawer.

Reaching inside, he picked up a medium-sized blade. The handle felt cool against his palm. He thrust it forward, stabbing toward a tile. Yes. That felt good. Not too big. Clutching the knife, he headed toward the common room. He’d just passed the prep counter when he noticed another door.

He glanced at the fake wooden plank then the knife.

“Do you want me to snap your neck?” Tattoo shouted. “Or do you want to spend your last hours lying comfortably in bed?”

Trent didn’t wait for the reply. He reached for the handle then twisted. The door eased silently open onto a hallway. In the quiet, he heard a radio and smelled bleach. After slipping through, he pushed the door closed then locked it. Not that the flimsy lock would keep Tattoo out, but it might slow him down long enough for Trent to escape.

His boots made little sound on the worn carpeting as he picked his way down the hall. Gaping holes marked missing doors. He peered inside the first one. Rats chewed on the sacks of flour and rice. The next one contained rows of folding chairs. The third had broken cots and extra blankets on a baker’s rack.

The next didn’t lead to another room but another hallway.

Pausing, he mulled over his choices. Straight or turn? He glanced over his shoulder. No one filled the hallway. Tattoo probably hadn’t finished collecting his booty off the dead. He had to find a phone and call the cops. Get the hell out of here. An exit sign hung over the door straight ahead but the soft strains of Brahms drifted down the new hallway.